


These Notes Will Hit An Empty Page

by turnyourankle



Category: Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Early Days, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-26
Updated: 2007-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brent barely has to turn to be face to face with Tom Conrad. He looks uncertain, on the brink of apology. I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about, would be so easy to say if it didn't have so many syllables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Notes Will Hit An Empty Page

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: sometimes my brain scares me. [1](http://community.livejournal.com/we_are_cities/132061.html) & [2](http://pics.livejournal.com/turnyourankle/pic/00315yps) & [3](http://pics.livejournal.com/turnyourankle/pic/00316tfa) are all to be blamed.

Brent's grip tightens around his glass when his eyes wander to the stage, the familiar face on guitar setting off a chain reaction of recognition. He can't look away, and tries to focus on the guitarists hands, instead of staring bug eyed at the band. He catches an E sharp and an A, and his fingers twitch awkwardly against his thigh. Nerves, not desire; he knows the difference by now. He knows he could be up there, if he wanted.  
  
His glass is almost empty, two ice cubes slowly melting, clinking together as he raises the glass to his mouth. There's no money for a refill, and he bites his upper lip nervously, focus switching from the empty seat in front of him to the boys on stage. Brent hadn't even noticed a band had come on until Blake left for the bathroom, and now the empty chair is mocking him.  
  
Blake barely gets into hearing range before Brent mumbles a hurried, ”Let's go,” leaves a bill on the table and rushes up, causing his chair to scrape audibly against the floor.   
  
–   
  
Brent doesn't go back to that bar.  
  
He doesn't go to any bar or club at all, for that matter. He takes to buying beer from a cheap Chinese convenience store a few blocks from his fresh off the market apartment. The small speakers by the register blast hits from the nineties and the only newspaper they carry is the Chicago Tribune. It's as much home as the dingy one bedroom he has to call home, and it smells nicer.   
  
Brent stands picking at a pack of gum (the same kind he and Ryan would chew buckets of late at night getting high on the sugar, while discussing who they'd thank in their MTV award speeches as Spencer rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear them over the sound of his drumming on the floor) as a Third Eye Blind song crackles through the aisles.   
  
Someone is humming along loudly in another aisle, and Brent harmonizes unconsciously, as his fingers move from the gum to the shelf, tapping along with the bass in the song. It's the closest he's come to playing in months.  
  
”Brent?” The humming's stopped, and Brent's hand flattens on the shelf. ”It  _is_  Brent right?” Brent barely has to turn to be face to face with Tom Conrad. He looks uncertain, on the brink of apology.  _I'm sorry, I don't know who you're talking about,_  would be so easy to say if it didn't have so many syllables.  
  
”Tom.”  
  
–   
  
The coffee shop is dark and almost empty, which is why Brent picked it. Brent doesn't know where to look, and he's thankful Tom is behind his camera most of the time, looking at things Brent can't see . He's still shell shocked at the familiar chin, lips, nose ring, eyes in front of him. The full package looking straight at him, talking to  _him_.   
  
Chicago is never a good idea.  
  
Brent coughs a little, and stares at his mug.”You do this a lot?”  
  
”Pick up orphaned bass players far away from home and buy them coffee?” Brent tries to nod as he takes a sip of his drink. It doesn't go too well. ”Only those I've crossed an ocean with.”   
  
Brent ducks his head, and if his hair had still been long, it would cover his cheeks and half of his eyes. It's baring, and his hand reflexively reaches to his face, to brush away what isn't there. He's quick to scratch a non-existent itch behind his ear, and he looks as awkward doing it as he feels. There's a  _click_ , and Tom's face reappears from behind his camera, cigarette hanging from his mouth. Tom smiles quickly, and glances around for a no smoking sign before lighting up the cigarette in his mouth, lips wrapping tightly around it. Brent wrinkles his nose at the smell, but doesn't say anything. He drinks his coffee, and looks at the glowing tip of Tom's cigarette.  
  
"Hey, maybe..." Tom's sentence trails off, fades into silence, and he looks at Brent intently.   
  
And maybe this is it, this is the moment when Brent gets a second chance. He locks eyes with Tom, trying to remember the way everything looks, smells, feels, right this second. Wants to be able to recreate the scene a thousand times over, down to and including how Tom's holding his cigarette this second. The second when he could be starting over. Wants to be able to tell the press, and Spencer about it, about The Moment. Wants to see their faces while he tries not to be smug.  
  
  


> Of course, it was a lot of work. But I had faith that it would work out, I couldn't let them down. It would be like, letting myself down you know? Second chances just don't come around all that often. [...] It's different to play with people you trust musically rather than personally, there's more of an unspoken understanding. The bond of music is much stronger than that of time.

  
Tom leans back in his seat, legs stretching out, and bumping against Brent's stiff shins. There's a flash, and Brent remembers Tom doing exactly this so many times before, leaning back like that, head usually rocking onto Jon's shoulder, eyes closing, and he imagines seeing this scene many times in the future. His mouth is dry, and he fidgets with his napkin, cursing himself for having left his bass in Vegas.  
  
Tom clears his throat, and continues "...I've got this new band. You should come to practice sometime. I think we could use someone impartial's opinion. If you have the time, you know."  
  
Brent blinks, and can feel his eyes going wide against his will. He missed it. He missed The Moment. He bites his upper lip briefly. "I. Okay." Tom smiles and nods, hand leafing through a roll of papers that was in his pocket, picking one and straightening it on the table, ballpoint pen in hand he strikes through some lines and writes something new. He hands it over to Brent.  
  
”We've had a few low-key gigs, but I'm sure the guys would appreciate someone unbiased saying what they think, you know?”  
  
Brent takes the green paper, scanning over the text briefly, repeating the address over and over in his mind. Tom leans his head against the wall behind him. He seems so comfortable, so at  _home_ , foot tapping lightly against Brent's. Brent is still stiff, and probably won't be able to drink caramel lattes ever again. He wants to crawl into Tom's skin, and stay however long he needs to have that ease. That confidence. Or even just the ability to pretend.  
  
”Yeah, okay.” Brent folds the paper once, twice, three times, and puts the small square into his jeans pocket. ”Why do you still do it?”  
  
”Wrong question,” Tom says, and leans forward suddenly, elbows on the table, and feet no longer tapping against Brent's.   
  
”What's the right question?”   
  
Tom looks Brent in the eyes, then glances away, biting the inside of his cheeks. The cigarette in his mouth looks dangerously close to falling. ”There is no question. I couldn't  _not_  do it. It's like asking why I keep getting up in the morning. It's not a choice.”  
  
Brent's thankful Tom doesn't ask him why he stopped.  
  
–   
  
When Brent gets home, he searches for Tom's portfolio, half expecting the picture of him from the coffee shop to be there. The site ends up in his bookmarks, and Brent checks for updates on all of his lunch breaks. He doesn't touch the folded flier in his jeans pocket until he notices two pictures from the coffee shop dated the day they met. Neither are of him.   
  
-  
  
Tom opens the door, eyes wide, and lips forming an 'O', when he sees Brent. ”Oh,” is all that escapes his lips as well.  
  
”Is this a bad time?” Brent asks, stomach dropping at the thought that maybe Tom didn't mean it. Maybe he was just being polite, asking him to come by. Maybe his picture didn't end up on the site because it wasn't good enough. ”Practice is on Tuesdays, right? I thought that's what you wrote,” Brent says, and starts nervously digging through his coat pocket for the flier Tom gave him.   
  
”No, yeah. Tuesday. Yeah, uh,” Tom stutters out, and briefly rubs his arm over his face. ”I'm just. Surprised.”   
  
”I can just.” Brent fists his hands in his pockets, and nods in the direction of the street.  
  
”No, no, come in. Just. Practice got canceled today, 'cause Sean, uh, the guy I started the band with, he had a family emergency.”  
  
”Oh,” Brent says weakly, stepping into the too brightly lit space. It looks more like a mixture between a studio and an office than an apartment. Isolation lining the walls, laptop weezing on the single desk, coffee cups and cigarettes lined up neatly next to the speakers attached to the computer.   
  
”'S okay, I've got the demos if you want to listen to that. It's probably easier on the ears anyway.” Tom smiles crookedly. ”Grab a chair, watcha want to drink?” He disappears into a darker crevice of the room, the sound of a fridge opening soon following.  
  
”I'll just, have what you're having,” Brent says, and finds a chair next to the desk to sit in.  
  
”Beer? Aren't you a little young for that?” Brent can almost hear Tom's smirk.  
  
”Fuck you, I'm legal.” Tom laughs, and reappears with two opened beers and a distinct glint in his eyes that vanishes quickly. Brent grabs his bottle, and takes a big swallow.   
  
”Let's see,” Tom drinks from his beer, and places it on the desk, far away from the keyboard, and starts scanning through the files. It doesn't take long before the sound of drums and guitar fill the space in the room. Vocals follow, but no bass. Brent's head swims a little at that, and he drinks more beer to calm himself down.   
  
Brent's shoulders relax a bit, and he leans back into his chair, tentatively toeing off his shoes. Tom nods along to beat, tongue peeking out of his mouth. ”There's this riff, around two forty-six, I'm not sure if it really belongs there, you know?” Tom says, and Brent nods in understanding, even though Tom's eyes are closed.  
  
Brent should be listening, but he just stares at Tom's loose limbs, spread out like an offering on the chair. Head still nodding along to the beat, breathing much calmer. Brent would think Tom had fallen asleep if he didn't take the occasional swig from his beer, and hold up his finger in the air when a section he really liked came up.   
  
By the time the playlist repeats for the second time, Brent's attention has shifted from the music, to the photographs spread about the place, to Tom. Their knees are knocking together, and Brent scoots closer, his knee grazing the inside of Tom's thigh. Tom doesn't react, and Brent gets out of his chair, instinctively leans in, brushing some hair from outside of Tom's eyes. Brent's almost on his knees in front of Tom, and then he is.  
  
He looks up, and Tom's eyes are open now, questioning. He says, ”Brent?” and Brent looks down concentrating on the fabric of Tom's jeans. Brent hears himself say ”Please,” and he must look pleading too, because Tom doesn't say anything else.   
  
There's no backing down, and Brent nervously starts undoing Tom's jeans. In his mind, it takes forever. His palms are sweaty, there's something wrong with the zipper, and Tom's lack of response stretches in front and behind of him. Brent doesn't want to see Tom's expression – or lack thereof – so he buries his face into Tom's stomach, licking the skin under the hem of his t-shirt.   
  
He palms Tom's crotch, applying pressure, and licking his way up to Tom's bellybutton. Tom is only half-hard when Brent starts sucking. Tom shifts in his seat, more out of discomfort than desire, and Brent tries to swirl his tongue, bobs his head a little. The music is still on, faint in the background, but all Brent can hear is the sound of sucking, and that of Tom's jeans sliding against the chair. Brent's eyes start to burn, and he blinks furiously.  
  
”Brent,” Tom says weakly, almost pleading, and it's all Brent can do to get up and not run away.  
  
-  
  
Brent doesn't plan on seeing Tom again after that. He looks for him, unconsciously. Recognizing a storefront from one of Tom's pictures, looking for places he's seen in Tom's pictures before. By the time Brent spots Tom's familiar figure his nose is numb from the cold.  
  
”Hey,” Brent says, voice low. Tom doesn't react, and Brent freezes for a second, dread settling into the his chest. He steps forward tentatively, and notices the buds in Tom's ears, the puffs of white air escaping his lips as he squints behind the camera.  
  
Brent steps into Tom's line of vision, blinded momentarily by the sudden flash and  _click_  of Tom's camera. ”Hey,” Tom says, and leans back, looking up at Brent. Brent joins him in the frost laced grass. Brent only realizes he's sitting too close when he places his hand on Tom's thigh without thinking.  
  
"This isn't what you want," Tom says, and lifts Brent's hand from his thigh.  
  
"Take a picture," Tom says, and hands Brent the camera. He leans back, resting his weight on arms, crosses his ankles. He doesn't take his eyes off Brent.  
  
The scene blinks white when Brent snaps a picture, flash too strong, too sudden. Brent examines the preview, an impossibly blurry and washed out Tom peeking at him against the dark background. Colors yellowed, and distorted.   
  
”It sucks, you should delete it,” Brent says quickly, and hands Tom the camera. Tom fidgets, and stares at the tiny screen for a while.Brent bites his lips, the dry skin making him queasy.  
  
”No, I shouldn't. It's a portrait. Those aren't meant to be flawless,” Tom says, and offers Brent a cigarette. He takes it, and pulls his knees into his chest, knuckles and eyes going red from the cold.


End file.
